


Return To Me

by Darkrivertempest



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Doctor Sleep Elements, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Fix-It, Ghost/Spiritual Aspects, M/M, Medical Trauma, Richie has a bit of Shine since the Deadlights, Slow Burn, Soul travel, lots of hurt/comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:21:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23219164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkrivertempest/pseuds/Darkrivertempest
Summary: Eddie Kaspbrak finds himself in unfamiliar territory after the Losers kill It.  During his out-of-body experience, he must decide whether to wake up and live a life far different than he had imagined, or to move on to the next plane.  Richie, of course, has his own opinion on the matter.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	Return To Me

**Author's Note:**

> Back in September, when I saw IT 2, I had forgotten that Eddie... well. Let's just say I bawled uncontrollably at a horror movie. I then went home and read as many fix-it fics as I could find. They were fabulous! (thank you) But I found some where overly optimistic when dealing with Eddie's injuries (sans turtle help, of course). So, I wanted to write a fix-it that dealt with the harsh realities of Eddie's injuries, especially if there was no magical intervention. Coming from a medical background, I felt I could explore the trials and tribulations of such a journey, but also the little victories that happen everyday. 
> 
> So, buckle in, it's gonna be a long one. 
> 
> I'll definitely reference Stephen King's It (and other works, probably) so any quotes that you recognize are attributed to him and he owns that, even though he's a bit like Disney and kills all the characters we love. 
> 
> Huge, beloved thanks to DelphiPSmith, my gorgeous beta, who thought at first I was needing editing for the IT Crowd fandom. Bless her, she's awesome.

Eddie thinks it’s an auditory hallucination when he hears Richie screaming about not leaving without him. Sound is fading as the earth trembles, so it sharply assaults Eddie’s diminishing senses when he’s roughly pulled into someone’s arms and hauled off the cold, rocky ground. 

He can’t see any more; the blood loss is too great, he can feel it. And the pain… the goddamned pain floods his body every time the person carrying him jostles his limp form this way or that. He’s sure he has nerve damage just about everywhere. It’s probably why his limbs are fucking useless. 

He knows he’s going through the first stages of death, and he’s fucking terrified. There’s no mystifying light at the end of a dark tunnel. No fucking choir of angels singing him to a heavenly abode. No long-dead relatives showing up to guide him home...on the plus side, his mother isn’t there to harangue him on this final journey, at least. But it’s unbearably dark, and Eddie fucking hates the dark.

It’s a small consolation that the Losers haven’t left him beneath Neibolt (or at least that’s what he assumes from the arms that are supporting him), but he’s not sure what awaits him once they reach the surface… if they even do. Honestly, they should’ve just left him. They would’ve stood a better chance of getting out of the sewers without his literal dead weight.

But Eddie can still hear Richie’s frantic words, pressed against the fragile skin of his temple. “Eds, hang on! I swear, we’re almost there. I promise. Just hang on for me, Eds!”

Eddie feels the vibration of Richie’s pleas as he sinks out of his body, and as darkness swallows him, he wishes he could tighten his grip on his mangled remains, if only for Richie’s sake.

* * *

An amorphous blackness surrounds Eddie. It clings to him like the weighted blanket he uses at home to calm his anxiety. Which he honestly thinks is bupkis now, since it never did a damn thing to help him during the frequent panic attacks he had whenever Myra suggested _soirées_ with her friends. He’d have been better off using the stupid thing to suffocate himself. He should return it for a refund. 

Oh, wait. He can’t. Because he’s dead. 

Oddly, being dead feels an awful lot like waiting in line. The interminable, boring-as-fuck length of time until it’s your turn. He just can’t see anyone else. He can _feel_ other people around him, it’s just everything is so goddamned inky, he might as well be blind. He can hear whispers all around him, but they’re so low and hushed that he can’t make out any of the words. The whispers ebb and flow, some close, some distant. Wherever they’re coming from, they have substance, they brush up against his… form? body? What the hell is he comprised of now? Whatever it is, when the sounds reach him they feel like the brief touch of butterfly wings. 

He tries to bring his hand up to look at it, but is suddenly blinded by thousands of pin-pricks of light that burst to life all around him. It takes his breath (which he’d thought was non-existent) away. He grasps his chest, pain lancing throughout his nerve endings. 

Wasn’t death supposed to be a release from pain? What the fuck, did he get some defective version of the afterlife? Is that why he’s standing alone in the dark like an idiot? Who exactly is running this shit-show? 

Just as he’s about to voice a scathing complaint, the light fades and he finally hears a word, one word, loud and urgent.

“ _Clear!_ ”

 _Oh, fuck me_.

Something violently wrenches Eddie from his isolated darkness, shoving him into a cacophony of sounds and colors. He covers his ears and squeezes his eyes shut to stop the barrage but it’s no use, because it’s the smell that hits him hardest: copper, mixed with antiseptic. 

He gags and opens his eyes to find himself standing in the corner of an operating room. Two people in scrubs and gowns are working simultaneously on someone lying on the table, while three others are rapidly handling instruments, suctioning, squeezing a hanging bag of blood labeled O NEGATIVE to force it to flow faster, infuse quicker. 

The poor bastard on the table is in terrible shape. From this angle, Eddie can’t see his face, but the machines show clearly the desperate situation. The heart rhythm is all over the place. The blood pressure fluctuates wildly. Off to his left, Eddie notices that the crash cart has already been broken into and used, crimson smeared across the paddles. Someone comes into the room with another two bags of blood, hands them off to one of the surgical staff, and leaves quickly.

Despite himself, Eddie moves closer, not registering that the professionals in the room are paying him no more mind than if he were a breeze. He can see the face of the patient now: there’s a familiar gash in the left cheek, neatly sewn up with black nylon thread. Panic fills his chest and throat as he gazes at his own body being worked on by the doctors and nurses. 

Alarms blare as Eddie backs away, eyes fixed, breathing ragged as that of the body on the table.

“Dr. Hendricks, control that pressure!” one of the doctors instructs tensely. “I’ve almost got his liver stabilized. I don’t want him coding again.”

The woman at Eddie’s head, presumably Hendricks, injects a solution into his IV, and within seconds he sees his heart rate slow, blood pressure stabilizing. The surgeon nods his thanks and returns to his sewing while a nurse hangs another bag of blood. 

Eddie covers his mouth so he won’t scream at the surreal experience of seeing himself being pieced back together. He glances down at his chest and yes, there it is, the gaping wound he’d sustained while trying to save Richie, and while he wouldn’t hesitate to do it again, this discombobulated feeling is completely fucked up. He doesn’t actually _feel_ the hole there, but he _knows_ it’s there, like a hangnail you keep picking at until it bleeds and then you need a shit-ton of Neosporin to keep it from getting infected, and if you rip it too far it’ll lead to MRSA, especially being in a hospital. He breathes slowly, trying to stop himself from panicking again; he needs to leave, because if he stays any longer he’ll probably cause himself to code once more. 

He backs up slowly, cautiously, and then he’s falling backwards into another operating room. He does yell this time, because what the actual fuck is going on? One minute he’s observing his own near-death, the next he’s in a totally different place.

This room is empty, save for a suspicious covered lump on the table. Miscellaneous instruments, sponges, plastic saline bags and empty syringe tubes lie on the floor. Smears and splatters of blood are nauseatingly bright here and there. The monitoring equipment is still hooked up to the figure on the table, but their beeps are silent, their displays dark and lifeless. Like the covered lump. 

Eddie approaches cautiously and lifts the blue sheet, only to quickly drop it as he turns away to dry-heave. 

The woman under the sheet was clearly expired. Though from the mess in the room, it was evident that she’d been worked on for some time before the medical staff called it. 

“Car accident,” says a soft voice near the door.

Eddie looks up and sees a young woman,staring at him. His eyes widen and he glances from her to the figure on the table. Is that...her? Is she talking to him?

“Wh-what?” he rasps finally.

She points to the table. “I was in a car accident.” She frowns and twists her fingers. “I was texting,” she admits.

“Fuck, you know that’s as bad as driving while drunk?” Eddie admonishes without thinking. 

Tears fill her eyes. “I know!” She hiccups a sob and glances towards the small square window in the door. “I thought… there wasn’t anybody on the road, and I…” She shakes her head and swipes at her eyes.

Eddie wants to berate her, but she looks miserable enough and he reminds himself _hey, dickhead, she’s dead… just like you. Well, not exactly -- you’re in some fucked up Limbo, because they’re still working on you in the next room._

He sighs and gestures to the doors. “You got family here?”

Before the girl has a chance to answer, Eddie hears the worst sound a human can make: the soul-deep wail of utter grief. It comes from outside the doors, from what he assumes is the waiting room. The girl cringes and goes through the door. The door itself doesn’t move, of course, but that doesn’t matter. Eddie follows her, only to be confronted with his own group of anxious people.

Thoughts of the girl fall away as Eddie looks at his friends, the Losers, all of them in various states of distress. They have the appearance of just having crawled out of a nightmare, with Ben sitting rigidly in a chair, covered from head to toe in dirt and blood. Beverly is worse, looking as if she’d been dipped in a vat of the stuff. They’re leaning against each other, though, staring off in the distance. Mike is next to them, watching the girl’s family, and he closes his eyes as they receive the bad news. Bill’s left knee is jumping up and down as he keeps his focus on something just out of sight.

Richie paces into view and Eddie’s chest aches at the look on his best friend’s face: sheer panic, underlain with utter devastation. Eddie doesn’t know _how_ he knows, he just does. It’s the same look he knew would be on his own face if their roles were reversed. 

Richie stops mid-stride, watching the doctor trying to console the girl’s family. He squeezes his eyes shut and runs his hands through his hair, gripping at the ends and pulling. Eddie wishes he could take Richie’s wrists and tug his hands away from inflicting the pain he’s surely experiencing.

“Stop, Richie,” he says softly. 

As if Richie heard him, he lets go of the filthy strands and stares in Eddie’s direction. 

Eddie blinks. Can Richie see him? Can he hear him?

“Hey, Richie,” Bill says gently. “What’s wrong, man?”

Richie glances around, his eyes wild. “I thought I heard…” He sniffs loudly and shakes his head. “Never mind.”

“Heard what?”

Richie ignores Bill and starts pacing again, towards where Eddie stands, invisible. Eddie’s heart is beating like a fucking drum. He hopes that isn’t causing more trouble in the operating room. All thoughts of that are pushed to the side, however, when Richie walks right through him.

Eddie forgets to breathe. Behind him tears flood Richie’s eyes and he slumps to his knees, sobbing into his hands. He pulls off his glasses and rocks back and forth. 

Eddie is… without words. He literally felt Richie move right through his soul. And dear god, it was overwhelming: complex, dark and lighthearted at the same time, strong and loving and utterly beautiful.

Bill kneels next to Richie, gripping his shoulder. “Wh-what happened, Rich?”

Richie gives him a broken smile. “I felt him, Bill. I felt Eddie, in here.” He presses a hand against his chest. “I could smell him, I could hear that wheezy little breath he has.” Richie’s smile is full of gratitude and it makes Eddie break inside. 

Eddie places his hand on Richie’s head, because he can’t not touch him. Richie’s eyes close in bliss and he leans into Eddie’s fingers as if he could feel them carding through the matted curls. Bill frowns and gives Richie a worried look, then glances around the corridor, obviously trying to figure out what Richie is reacting to. When it’s evident he sees nothing, he pulls Richie to his feet and Eddie’s hand drops away.

“Richie… there’s n-no one here.”

Richie shrugs off Bill’s grasp. “I know that. But I know what I _felt_.” He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. “I don’t really care if you believe me or not.”

Bill narrows his eyes. “I didn’t say that. I’m j-just telling you what I see, which is n-nothing.”

“And I’m telling you that that shithead walked through my fucking soul,” Richie hisses. 

Bill glances at the nurses at the charge station who are staring at them, and gives them a wan smile. He pulls Richie down the hallway, away from listening ears, then crosses his arms and glares at him. “Look, we’re all st-strung out. We all want Eddie t-t-to pull through. But there’s no-nothing there, Richie. They’re already looking at us like we’re psy-psychos. You want to prove them right? They’ll kick us to the curb and y-you won’t be able to see him at all. Y-you want that? Because I’m sure you’ll l-lose what’s left of your mar-marbles, then.”

Richie’s jaw clenches and he draws in on himself. Eddie’s seen it a hundred times in the years they’ve been friends, whenever Richie felt personally attacked. “Just what are you insinuating, Big Bill?”

“I’m sa-saying that we all love Eddie. But you n-need to pull yourself to-together. You especially. So you can finally t-tell him how you feel after he gets out of sur-surgery.”

Richie turns three shades of pale and looks like he might collapse. Or vomit. “I hate to be cliché, Billiam, but you know nothing about me.”

“Richie--”

“Kindly fuck off,” Richie snaps and heads off down the corridor. 

“Asshole,” Bill mutters and goes back to the group.

Eddie stands there, frozen to the spot, trying to process what he just heard. _So you can finally tell him how you feel_. What the hell did that mean? How did Richie feel… about him? 

Half hopeful and half afraid, needing to know the answer, he follows Richie, who by now has disappeared out one of the side doors. It’s a smoking area. By the time Eddie gets there, Richie is already inhaling deeply and blowing out tendrils of smoke that curl in the early morning air. 

Richie’s eyes are red-rimmed from crying and he frankly looks like shit. Eddie thinks he’s the best, most beautiful sight ever. 

“I’m here,” Eddie whispers. 

The cigarette falls from Richie’s trembling fingers as tears well in his eyes. Richie pinches the bridge of his nose. “Eddie,” he whispers, almost pleading.

Eddie feels a surge of hope. If Richie can hear him, then maybe, if he concentrates hard enough, he can make Richie feel him as well. Eddie focuses all his energy into his fingers and reaches out, touching Richie’s hand, but it goes right through. Richie doesn’t even react. Eddie sighs. He must have used up his energy when he touched Richie earlier. 

Or maybe, since his body is still in surgery, Eddie just doesn’t have the power, the substance, to do anything other than a faint whisper, for those willing or wishing to hear. And if anyone was willing or able, it would be Richie. 

So Eddie resolves to stay with Richie. Until Richie can see him, hear him.

Touch him.

**Author's Note:**

> While I have a general plot line for this story, if there is anything you'd like to see (within reason) let me know and I'll try to accommodate if it fits within the direction I want this story to go.


End file.
